


Echoes of You

by penguinslash



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ghost Belle, Rumbelle Secret Santa, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 20:27:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8937982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penguinslash/pseuds/penguinslash
Summary: When a traumatized Gold returns home after a harrowing ordeal, he is haunted by the ghosts of his past in more ways than one.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notalone91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalone91/gifts).



> My Rumbelle Secret Santa fic for the awesome jackingbackpeeta on tumblr. The prompt was Ghost of one, unconventional communication. I hope you enjoy!

Raibert Gold stumbled up the steps of his Victorian manner, cursing as his cane slipped yet again on a patch of ice. He would have to have a word with his man Dove about that, but for now, he was simply glad to finally be home. The stained glass door creaked open under his touch, the last rays of sun streaking through to the dark interior. A thick layer of dust coated every surface; Gold’s uneven gait kicked up clouds of it as he crossed to the liquor cabinet in his living room to pour himself a Scotch. He settled into his armchair with the bottle at his elbow and sought to do what he did best: forget. Forget where he’d been for the past year. Forget why he was now alone. 

The grandfather clock in the corner chimed midnight. The wan moonlight filtered through the dirty window, highlighting the additional gray in Gold’s long hair. The man himself was passed out in his chair, tie and top buttons undone, bottle half empty beside him. A slight breeze drifted through the room, swirling a path through the dust and knocking a book from the shelf to the floor where it fell open. The breeze turned the pages, then ruffled Gold’s hair before fading away, a spectral hand faintly visible in the moonlight. 

Gold awoke in the gray morning, his head pounding. At least he had slept through the night without a nightmare, he thought bitterly as he trudged into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He hadn’t had a peaceful night’s sleep since before, and though spending the night slumped in his chair had left him rather sore, he was feeling better for the rest. He looked around the dusty kitchen as the kettle boiled, fishing out his phone to make a few calls. He needed to make a fresh start here, no matter how difficult it would be. Cleaning the house and himself up was as good as any place to begin. Tea drunk, he left the empty cup on the counter and went to shower. 

He shaved in the streaky, grimy mirror, not noticing the fresh, dainty handprints in the fog, before donning a suit and heading down the hall. He paused outside of a bedroom door and rested his forehead against it, his long silver hair curtaining his face as a tear rolled down his cheek. 

“Oh Bae,” he cried, “I’m sorry, m’boy.” A shiver passed through him, a faint light glowing in the hall. He shook it off and limped down the stairs and out the door, not noticing the overturned teacup on his kitchen counter. 

The glowing light coalesced into a spectral being, a young woman in a Victorian dress. She sighed and drifted through the door Gold had been leaning on, into the bedroom of a teenage boy. Were it not for the thick layer of dust, it would seem as if he were there only yesterday, a sweatshirt dropped haphazardly on the floor, a sketchbook open on the desk with a half started drawing, never to be finished now. Belle gently ran her fingers over the page, scattering the dust to reveal the image, a portrait of a girl, her name scrawled in Bae’s loopy handwriting: Emma. She smiled sadly at the young love that would never flourish, reminded of her own doomed past.

* * *

_The bell over the door tinkled as Belle strolled into Golden Threads Tailors, her beaming smile lighting up the room as Rumplestiltskin looked up from his work._

_“Belle, hey,” he grinned. “Are you here for your dress?”_

_“Ostensibly, yes. But we both know I’m really here to see you.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek._

_“I can’t say I’m disappointed,” he laughed, drawing her closer and kissing her properly. “I’ve missed you.”_

_“Well I have been busy opening the town’s new library. Books don’t sort themselves, you know. Even with this new Dewey Decimal System.”_

_“Well I’m sure our townspeople can’t wait for the endless knowledge you will bestow on them, my Belle. Now go change into this so I can make sure it fits you perfectly for the big opening day.” He pressed the blue dress into her hands and she skipped off behind the back curtain where a maid was waiting to help her change. She returned minutes later swathed in his latest creation._

_“Beautiful, Belle.”_

_A blush lit her cheeks. “Why surely that’s a compliment to my incredible dressmaker.”_

_“Nonsense. The dress is simply made beautiful by the breathtaking woman who wears it.”_

_“Flatterer,” she murmured, moving closer at his gesture so he could make some adjustments._

_“There. Perfect. Just like you.” He pressed a gentle kiss to the sensitive spot below her ear, causing her to shiver._

_“Rumple…”_

_“Yes sweetheart?” he continued his trail of kisses down her neck careful not to leave a mark._

_“We can’t,” she breathed, her words belying her actions as she leaned back into him. “My father, Gaston…”_

_“You’re mine, Belle.”_

_“Yes. Yes. I love you,” she turned in his arms and kissed him full on the mouth, only to spring apart at the sound of the clock chiming the hour. “I have to go,” she panted, breathless and flushed from his ministrations. “The library.”_

_He nodded and kissed her softly. “I’ll see you there.”_

_She left the shop on shaky legs, rushing back across the street to her books. Unbeknownst to the lovers, Gaston was lurking in the alley by the shop and had caught them in the act. And he swore he would have his revenge._

* * *

Gold returned to the house in the early afternoon with his hair cut short and a team of professional cleaners. Belle frowned from a dark corner as the crew set the place to rights, wiping away the year of accumulated filth. She had never seen him like this. He was surly like usual, demanding and exacting, but beneath it all she saw the haunted look in his eyes, the fear and sadness he tried to mask. He could no longer hide behind his hair, short as it now was, but his expression was hard and guarded. Belle certainly missed his long hair, but his new look was quite distinguished and showed off his pixie ears, which she found adorable. 

With the house clean and the hired help gone, Gold settled into his study to review his paperwork, bringing along the bottle of Scotch. Once satisfied with the state of his business, he reclined on the small couch in the room with his bottle, hoping once again to have a dreamless night’s sleep. He startled awake around midnight to a loud thud, his bleary eyes searching for the cause in the dark. They finally lighted on his heavy brass paperweight now resting on the floor. He shook his head and settled back to sleep; his drunk mind must be playing tricks on him. 

Belle watched him sleep, her heart breaking at his pain. She looked through the papers on the desk, her ghostly hands grasping the page about the library and setting it on top. Leaving the paperweight she had knocked over on the floor, she crossed to his side, her fingers toying with the short hair at his nape causing him to shiver. She had missed him, while he was gone, and was happy to have him back, though mournful to see him in such a state. The loss of Bae had hit him hard, as well as whatever had happened to him while he was gone. She hoped one day they would be able to talk, and he would tell her his story. But for now, she simply had to make her presence known, to make him feel her, hear her, see her. 

Over the next few weeks, Belle became more and more desperate to reach him. He brushed off most of her messages as figments of his drunken imagination: old books lying open to certain pages, the page about the library always on top of his business papers no matter where he put it away, various trinkets moved or knocked to the floor, even the strange designs in the foggy mirror after his showers. Those had scared him, especially as the strange swirls began to form into words, a name: _Rumplestiltskin_. He feared he had finally cracked, that everything had finally gotten to him and he would have to take up more unwanted sessions with Dr. Hopper. 

Things finally came to a head when he came home from his pawnshop one evening to find his teacup from that morning overturned on its saucer on the counter, nowhere near where he had left it. He approached it with a frown, when suddenly it was knocked to the floor with a clatter. He winced at the pain in his leg as he bent to pick it up, eyes catching on the very noticeable chip now in the rim. But when he turned the cup to inspect it, he noticed something even odder. The dregs of the tea had dried into distinct shapes, a closed book and a dagger. 

He nearly dropped the cup again as he felt something cold clasp around his hands, looking up with startled eyes to see a translucent, yet beautiful, woman. A ghost. There was a ghost in his kitchen holding his hands. All of the strange things that had been happening to him finally made sense. In a whoosh of relief, her breathed out, “you!”

“You can see me?” she questioned, her head tilted curiously to the side. He nodded frantically in response, and she beamed. “Finally. I’ve been trying for ages to get through to you.”

“M-me?” he stuttered, stumbling to a nearby chair as his shaking knees gave out. “Who are you?”

“I’m Belle,” her smile dimmed, and he found himself sad to see it go. “You’re not Rumple, are you? You don’t remember me.”

He shook his head. “Rumple? Like Rumplestiltskin? You wrote that on the mirror, didn’t you?” She nodded, and he scrubbed his face with his hands. “I’m talking to a ghost. A ghost. Who was this Rumple?”

“You,” she answered calmly. “We were...we were, well, lovers before I, before I died.”

“I’m not...I can’t be. How?”

“I know it’s you. I’ve always felt you. Your name was Rumplestiltskin. You owned a tailor shop on Main Street. Now you’re...” she trailed off, waiting for him to answer. 

“Raibert. Raibert Gold. It’s a pawnshop now, actually,” he gave her a crooked smile.

“It suits you,” she smiled back. 

 

As more weeks passed, they settled into something comfortable, Belle joining him for company and long talks in the morning for his cup of tea before work and his evening meal and drinks before bed. She found herself falling in love with him all over again, this new and broken version of the man she once knew. Raibert was struck from the very beginning by her beauty and desired her, but as a ghost she was forever out of his reach. He didn’t realize how much he had come to rely on her until the morning she didn’t appear. 

He had slept poorly that night, strange dreams of blazing fires keeping him tossing and turning. As such, he was late coming down for tea. It made him anxious when she didn’t appear, but late as he was, he hurried and rushed off to work. He was unsettled all day, angst coiling low in the pit of his stomach from his worry. When had he begun to care that much? And what could possibly have happened to his ghost? 

At the close of business that day, he rushed home, hoping against hope that she would be waiting for him like usual. It was like a punch to the gut when he realized she wasn’t, and he set about frantically searching the house for her, calling out her name. After opening nearly every door in the house, he finally found her in the library, huddled in the corner clutching something, sobs wracking her tiny frame. 

“Belle,” her name was a breath, relief and concern and love all wrapped in air. 

She looked up at the sound, her cries tapering off into soft sniffles. “Raibert. You found me.”

“Of course sweetheart. I love you.” The admission was out of his mouth without a thought. Though he has never uttered the words, he knew they were the truth, a truth he saw reflected in her glassy eyes. 

“You love me?” She smiled tentatively at his nod and continued, “I love you too.”

He returned her soft smile as he crossed the room to her and slowly lowered himself to the floor beside her, his leg be damned. “What’s wrong, Belle?”

“I died,” she sniffed, using her sleeve to wipe the tears from her face. “Here, in this very room. Today.” At his raised eyebrow, she amended, “well about a hundred and thirty years ago, but today.” 

“You don’t look a day over twenty five,” he smirked, causing her to huff out a laugh. 

“The anniversary is always hard. The memory is always stronger on the day. I feel the pain of dying all over again. His hands clenched around my throat…” she trailed off, her own hand absently running along the darker splotches on her neck, the other still clutching the small canvas, fingers toying with the fraying edges. 

The movement caught his eye and he gestured for the canvas, which she carefully passed to him. “What is…” he cut off as he took in the image before him. It was of him, well, Rumplestiltskin, he supposed, with Belle, beautifully rendered in charcoal. 

“I had it commissioned for your birthday,” she smiled sadly, overcome by a wave of nostalgia for that brief time they had been happy. “It was just about the only thing that could be salvaged from your shop after…” she trailed off, biting her lip. 

“It burned down, didn’t it? His-- my tailor shop?” When she nodded, he continued, “I was in there, wasn’t I? That’s how I died, before?”

The memory brought a fresh round of tears to Belle’s eyes, and she flung her arms around his neck, needing his comfort even though he shivered from the cold of her touch. “You never even made it to my library opening. This dress is the last thing I ever had of you,” she got out between sobs, clinging tightly to him. 

“Oh Belle,” he did his best to hold her in return, his hands occasionally slipping through her incorporeal form. He felt the sudden need to unburden himself of his troubles, of the traumas he had experienced in this life, to share them with her, to be consumed by her, and saved by her. 

In halting words between tears of his own, he wove her the story of the past year, how he was kidnapped by a madwoman who tortured him and murdered Bae, how he held his dying boy in his arms as he took his last shuddering breaths. How after months of being starved and degraded and abused he finally escaped, only to be poked and prodded by doctors and police alike before he was finally allowed free, only to return to his empty house, made even more empty by the absence of his son, whom he wasn’t even allowed to bury. 

She held him close through his tale, murmuring that he would be alright and that she loved him until he fell asleep in her arms, exhaustion overtaking him. Belle gently stroked his cheek and kissed his forehead before rising and floating through the house, knowing what she had to do. No one would ever hurt her love again. 

 

When the fire department finally arrived an hour later, there was nothing they can do to save the house, or the man who once lived inside it. He now glowed as bright as the flames, as bright as his love, the ghost beside him, for he was now like her, an eternal spirit, the memories of his several lives with her now living in his soul. They embraced fully, able to touch properly now, their lips meeting in a kiss as passionate and hot as the inferno around them, and they made love on a bed of the ashes and embers of their former lives. 

As they faded out into the night with the dying blaze, a small canvas fluttered to the ground, the edges barely singed by the fire, their picture from the past, strong enough to survive flames and death, and as eternal as their love.


End file.
